Ode to the Heart of a Small Child
by Verboten Byacolate
Summary: As it turns out, when Canada tries to be helpful, he is as destructive as America. France, wee baby Canada, and copious amounts of fluff.


It had taken hours to finally put Canada to sleep. The little boy had fussed like his brother (which only led France to believe that he had been overexposed to Alfred for far too long). He had refused to settle, mischief the only mark on his agenda. Matthew had decided to "help" Francis fix dinner, which had only resulted in a piteous waste of egg whites and an immediate tossing into the tub after being stripped by France's floury fingers. When he'd been stuffed into his billowy white nightdress and dinner finished, the child enthusiastically lept from his high chair and had ended up a wailing mass of scuffed knees and wounded pride.

After many kisses and soothing words _en français_, the sniffling little boy decided to help his Papa tidy the after-dinner mess. Unfortunately for Francis, "help" was a relative term, and with the "help" of a hearty amount of leftover _crème _and clumsy hands, Matthew became in dire need of a second bath.

It wasn't until the tragic death of a bottle of very, _very _fine wine that Francis stopped being so sweet and forgiving. One short moment later, his tired little territory deflated in a very teary display of dejection, which of course led to the melting of France's anger into guilt. With calm, gentle hands he lifted Matthew so as to keep him from stepping on the broken glass with his tiny fidgeting feet and sat him up on the rocking chair while France cleaned the mess.

Once he had returned, hands scented bittersweet and reaching for Matthew, the child's eyes widened hopefully. Reflected in soft lavender France smiled and lifted him to settle on his lap. Canada curled into him, clutching the loose white linen on his chest and nuzzled rather snugly into the crook of his shoulder and neck.

In a tiny trembling voice he whispered apologies, scrunching his face up in earnest and adorable apology.

With gentle French, he inquired as to why Matthew had become so restless. He was offered a gentle tremble and a worried lower lip in reply. "I wanted to help you," Matthew confessed quietly, "because I didn't want Père Noël to think that I was a bad boy."

Francis rocked him thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes trained on the crackling fire.

"Père Noël would not think that you were naughty," he said with a gentle certainty, pulling Canada snugly against his chest. Matthew's fingers stilled at the silver buttons of France's shirt - silver he'd mined in Matthew's own lands - and he turned two pretty eyes up to Francis'.

"You know Père Noël?" he whispered conspiratorially. France's nod was solemn.

"_Oui_, he and I are very well acquainted. We have had long, oh, very long discussions about you, _mon enfant_, and I can assure you that there is no reason to fear his judgment."

Matthew, never doubting Francis' infinite wisdom, was comforted by this, and it was only a few short moments thereafter that the elder nation felt the boy's nose nuzzle into the crook of his neck, sleep having overcome him at last. France had half a mind to put him in bed, but the warmth of the fire and the gentle, rhythmic puffs of warm air against his throat were combining in a massive effort to convince him otherwise.

Cradling the boy, he gently rocked himself into a dull, dreamy slumber.

Unbeknownst to the blissfully dreaming pair, a whirlwind of crystalline snow and a winter breeze billowed out from the bottom of the fireplace, gently extinguishing the flame. A slender form followed soon thereafter, rolling back onto his feet from the fall with skill and finesse, pushing his beret back onto his head. "Père Noël" cocked his head at the dreamers and smiled, sighing wistfully at the tiny boy in France's arms.

"It really would be nice to have a _pienokainen _around the house," he ho-hummed to himself, gently setting a tall bottle of _Cheval Blanc _tied up in a lovely gold ribbon on the table and nestling a stuffed white bear in Canada's lap. "When you're older, I will bring you a real one, _lapsi kulta_."

The whispered promise was offered into the curve of Matthew's ear and Tino's light and airy laughter followed him all the way back up the chimney and into the starry night.


End file.
